Blackout - By Tom Barber Page 0,79

him yet. Time was on their side. Cobb was at the safe house, Jackson was here and Fletcher was being guarded at the hospice, all protected and prepared. Porter had ordered that they wait, so they’d left the Panther in the cell for over an hour. The man in the interrogation room and his team had enjoyed the element of surprise when killing their seven victims so far. That wouldn't happen again.

With Cobb gone for the time being, Porter had assumed leadership of the squad. He was standing outside the cell in a dark viewing room, alongside the rest of First Team and Agent Jackson, who had come downstairs after they had first brought the captive in. Down the corridor, Deakins and Second Team were still guarding the building, both front and rear entrances, but each officer was still wearing his throat mic so they could all communicate at a moment's notice.

In the room adjacent to the holding cell, shielded behind a one-way mirror, Porter pulled his mobile phone from its home on his left collarbone and pushed Cobb's number as the other men examined the Panther through the glass. The phone rang once, and was answered.

‘Port?’ Cobb said.

'Evening sir,' Porter said, turning to one side. 'I have some news.'

'Talk to me.'

I'm afraid it’s both good and bad. We captured one of the Panthers. He's in one of the interrogation cells right now. We think he might be the leader.'

Pause.

'The bad?'

'We didn't get to McCarthy in time. They killed him.'

‘Shit. How?'

'Bazooka attack. Hit his car in the street.'

Pause.

'Is everything over there secure?' Porter asked.

Silence. Cobb didn't respond, and the connection went fuzzy.

'Sir?' he repeated.

'Sorry,' Cobb's voice said, the line cutting in and out. 'The connection is bad. We’re almost at the house. My in-laws are away, so we have the place to ourselves. Blessing in disguise.'

Pause.

'We need to get this man talking. Find out where the rest of his team are. Who’s going to lead the interrogation?'

'I was thinking Fox or Archer, sir. Since Frost retired, those two have taken the brunt of it. They're both pretty solid.'

'OK. If one of them can't get through, use the other. But tell them to stay on their guard. We know how dangerous this man is. And keep me posted. How’s Agent Jackson?'

Porter glanced at the American, who had his back turned, watching the captive closely through the glass.

'He's fine, sir.'

'OK. Keep me in the loop.'

The call ended. Porter turned to Jackson and the rest of First Team, who were standing there in a line watching the soldier, like a jury.

'Cobb's almost there,' Porter told them.

Jackson nodded. 'Good.'

Porter looked over at Archer. 'Ready for some face-time?'

Archer nodded, feeling the cut over his eye from the head-butt the soldier gave him. He’d had a headache ever since.

'Let's do it.'

TWENTY FOUR

The Special Forces soldier didn't react when Archer entered the room.

It was totally silent in there, the lights glaring down from the roof-light, bright and quiet. Archer closed the door with a click that echoed around the room. He had no folder in his hands. There was no tape recorder on the table between him and the soldier. The recording equipment was rigged up in the room already and every word was recorded from outside. Normally, in interrogations such as these, the handcuffs on the prisoner would be off already, but this time they were definitely staying on.

Archer moved forward, taking the empty chair across from the man.

A long silence followed. The lights in the room were stark and unforgiving, and they gave Archer an opportunity to fully examine the soldier in front of him up close. His physical presence was intimidating. He was wearing black combat overalls and black boots, and the seams of the clothing were tight around his shoulders and arms as his hands were pulled back behind him from the cuffs. He was built like a doorframe. His hair was dark and ruffled from the balaclava, and he had rough stubble on his chin and cheeks.

'What's your name?' Archer asked him.

The man looked at him.

His face was strong and hard, chiselled from stone, dark eyebrows.

He had dark, blue, unemotional eyes, as cold as Arctic frost, and they settled on Archer's face.

'In English, my name would be Wulf,' the man said, his Eastern European accent strong, his voice deep.

'Is that your real name?'

The soldier paused.

'You mean the name my parents gave me?’

‘Yes.’

‘No.'

Pause.

'You and your team have killed seven men today. I saw you kill McCarthy. That's a life sentence in prison.'

He paused.

'But